He rose up, he took my hand in his own and laid the other on my brow, and I felt his heart go out to mine and gather me to him, as a child is gathered to a father’s arms.  And then he went silently and lightly upon his way.

XVI

The time moved on quietly enough in the land of delight.  I made acquaintance with quite a number of the soft-voiced contented folk.  Sometimes it interested me to see the change coming upon one or another, a wonder or a desire that made them sit withdrawn and abstracted, and breaking with a sort of effort out of the dreamful mood.  Then they would leave us, sometimes quite suddenly, sometimes with courteous adieus.  New-comers, too, kept arriving, to be made pleasantly at home.  I found myself seeing more of Cynthia.  She was much with Lucius, and they seemed as gay as ever, but I saw that she was sometimes puzzled.  She said to me one day as we sat together, “I wish you would tell me what this is all about?  I do not want to change it, and I am very happy, but isn’t it all rather pointless?  I believe you have some secret you are keeping from me.”  She was sitting close beside me, like a child, resting her head on my arm, and she took my hand in both of hers.

“No,” I said, “I am keeping nothing from you, pretty child!  I could not explain to you what is in my mind, and it would spoil your pleasure if I could.  It is all right, and you will see in good time.”

“I hate to be put off like that,” she said.  “You are not really interested in me; and you do not trust me; you do not care about the things I care about, and if you are so superior, you ought to explain to me why.”

“Well,” I said, “I will try to explain.  Do you ever remember having been very happy in a place, and having been obliged to leave it, always hoping to return; and then when you did return, finding that, though nothing was changed, you were yourself changed, and could not, even if you would, have taken up the old life again?”

“Yes,” said Cynthia, musing, “I remember that sort of thing happening once, about a house where I stayed as a child.  It seemed so stupid and dull when I went back that I wondered how I could ever have really liked it.”

“Well,” I said, “it is the same sort of thing here.  I am only here for a time, and though I do not know where I am going or when, I think I shall not be here much longer.”

At this Cynthia did what she had never done before—­she kissed me.  Then she said, “Don’t speak of such disagreeable things.  I could not get on without you.  You are so convenient, like a comfortable old arm-chair.”

“What a compliment!” I said.  “But you see that you don’t like my explanation.  Why trouble about it?  You have plenty of time.  Is Lucius like an arm-chair, too?”

“No,” she said, “he is exciting, like a new necklace—­and Charmides, he is exciting too, in a way, but rather too fine for me, like a ball-dress!”